


They are such secretive creatures

by Trojie



Series: Stories that aren't about cats [1]
Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: Fellatio, Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Multi, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-05
Updated: 2011-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Handsome Bob figures out it's One Two he wants, he knows he has to keep it quiet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They are such secretive creatures

**Author's Note:**

> Written for random00b for the Help Brazil 2011 auction. I am so sorry it's taken me so long! Many thanks to Photoclerk, my Rocknrolla cheerleader/beta extraordinaire. This is by way of being a Bob's-POV prologue of sorts to my [Stories That Aren't About Cats](http://archiveofourown.org/series/5691)-verse.

It's not that Bob doesn't like girls. Sure, he likes girls, girls are fine. Girls are easy to talk to. He gets on brilliantly with girls. And girls are nice to touch, they get him going alright. It's just that … he doesn't like them like _that_. Not to really look at, or to want to chat up in bars for real. Not to fall in love with.

He falls into _bed_ with girls mostly because they like him, and because everyone expects that if you have a quiet word with a bird you're intending on shagging her (including the bird, nine times out of ten), and because hey, he likes sex. And he does his best in bed with them, because he knows what it's like to feel like the person you're interested in doesn't give a shit, and they're always perfectly nice girls, so he doesn't want them to feel like that.

No-one deserves to feel like that.

Handsome Bob, the lady-killer, they call him.

***

He never really figured out that he had an eye for the boys. Not actually in a way that meant he'd gone, alright, yep, there's that then. He just sort of averted his eyes and went on with his business and told himself, _everyone looks_.

But he figured out that One Two did it for him when he was with a girl. A girl One Two'd introduced him to, actually. He was getting down and dirty with her, having a good time, and she was Scots and had dark hair in that short pixie cut that was getting popular and Bob's mind just went there. Where it shouldn't have.

And she was tall, and he had her up on top, going for it, with her filthy mouth running a hundred miles an hour and all he could think was who she sounded like effing and blinding, what she felt like _inside_ , around him, and whether or not One Two would feel like that.

And then after that it was like he couldn't _stop_ looking, looking the way Mumbles does at birds, with a _phwoar_ and a head-tilt and a succession of bad, bad thoughts in his head. Except he can't. Can't linger over a look, can't say things like that and can't move like that and can't think those thoughts. Not about his best mate.

Sometimes he lets himself do that, think that, look like that, over _other_ blokes, safe at bars far from where his friends are. And he uses other names and acts like the spy in a war film about it. Careless talk costs lives and all that. This is his Enigma secret, and if he's lucky no-one's gonna decode that about him.

They do, though.

Mumbles catches him stumbling out of a pub with some man on his arm, or more accurately, all over the back of him, heading towards an alleyway, because Bob doesn't take them home, oh no, he just wants to get it done and get gone. Presumably old Mumbles is on his way to another pub, because he doesn't stop and this isn't exactly his kind of a night-spot, but he sees Bob all right.

Bob freezes.

Mumbles doesn't stop, just nods, winks, and keeps moving.

Bob is fucked. So, _so_ fucked. The bloke yanks him into the alleyway, trying to pull his attention back, and gets on his knees like he's been needing it all day. Bob lets him do what he wants, fists his hands in the man's hair and lets it go, but it's all fake.

It's hot and wet but it's all kinds of not right. No matter how good it feels it's still the wrong mouth wrapped around his cock. It's… Bob throws his head back up against the wall and takes it, thrusting forward, doesn't ask for anything more than what this guy is willing to give because he has other things on his mind. Other dark-haired, growly-voiced things that tell him to _shut the fuck up_ or tell him to _go, just fucking go, Bob_. Completely innocent things that Bob's head just _twists_ and tortures him with.

And now Mumbles knows Bob gets off in alleyways with other blokes. Mumbles is gonna tell One Two, and then. Then everyone is gonna start to wonder, start to worry, and they won't be his mates any more, because they'll think he wants to. Well.

Bob can't finish his sentences when some bloke is sucking his brains out through his cock and his head is telling him this is it, mate, this is the end. His eyes roll shut as the bloke licks him clean, and he manages an out of breath 'yeah, cheers,' and a rough, hasty handjob with the guy rutting up against him in a way that tells Bob he gets off more on what Bob looks like than what he's doing, and then he's alone, and he doesn't have anything more to hide behind.

The wall is still holding him up as he tucks himself back inside his trousers and tries to get his breath back. As the good feeling of having got his end away fades, all he's left with is a red wash of anger riding fast on the heels of his panic. Fuck Mumbles. Fuck him for not picking another night, fuck him for not picking another bar.

Fuck Bob and Bob's stupidity for getting caught. He knows he's gonna get shit tomorrow. And probably get the shit kicked out of him as well.

But he can't not go, so he goes. Y'know. Better to face the music and all that.

Mumbles asks him for a game of pool, so he racks 'em and Mumbles takes the break, sinks the twelve-ball in the corner pocket to take solids, misses the fourteen in the side pocket by a whisker, and then brushes past Bob near enough to hiss, 'I won't say a word, mate,' into his ear and completely ruin his shot.

'Miscue,' Bob chokes out, and Mumbles lines up again, and essentially the game's a bust after that, with Mumbles sinking shot after shot, but at least it's not Bob's actual balls on the line

***

Bob's next armful turns out to be one of Cookie's customers, which Bob finds out when Cookie waltzes into the man's bedsit while Bob is on the job. As in, _on the job_. The bloke is dark-haired, taller than Bob, and Bob is fucking him through the mattress at 3am when Cookie steps in.

He steps out just as promptly, but not before they both know he's been there, both know they've been seen, and it seems to do something for Bob's new friend because he bucks like a horse underneath Bob, and they both go off like rockets seconds after.

Bob drags his clothes on, buggers off as soon as they're done. Cookie seems to think they need to talk though, next time they run into each other.

'Nothing to be ashamed of, Handsome. You think I dunno what it's like to need summink everyone tells you you shouldn't?' he asks, and cocks his head at Bob, and in the hazy, smoky light at the back of the Speeler, the bags under Cookie's eyes turn into junkie hollows. Bob doesn't like the comparison, but he takes the point. 'I'm not gonna breathe a word, so you just relax, my son,' Cookie adds. 'I just wanna tell you, you need to watch it, yeah? Not everyone's as understanding as ol' Cookie.' And he looks a bit to the left, and Bob follows his eyes to where One Two is reading the paper.

'Know what I mean?' the old dealer says, and nudges Bob's elbow.

'Yeah,' Bob says, because he does.

One Two looks up, and Bob smiles a bit weakly, and it's still there, the thing that makes him have to force the hum of arousal away. That's always there, doesn't matter how many men Bob does. He can't flush that out.

***

Fred doesn't see anything, doesn't talk to anyone and doesn't ask any questions, he just idly tells Bob a story about his niece and her girlfriend at the family dinner table last Christmas. It's a funny story, and a family story, and Fred has always liked talking to Bob about his family because he knows Bob cares about that kind of thing, but Bob can't help but feel that Fred's saying something, y'know? Making a statement

And so one by one, somehow or other, the lads all find out. And okay, so maybe there're less casual pats on the back, and maybe they're careful not to end up at the urinal at the same time as him, but they're keeping his secret and they're not bashing him to death in an alleyway, so Bob figures he has a lot to be grateful for.

The main thing is, One Two doesn't know. And he can never know. It isn't that Bob thinks One Two's intolerant or homophobic, or whatever - well, no more than any of the other lads - it's that, well … he's not a man who likes to be surprised. He's got a world view and he's going to stick to it. Bob doesn't want to be the one to shake it.

***

They don't have time for finesse. They have to get the mud off their shoes and the blood off their hands, and all the rest - Bob doesn't know exactly what the fuzz can use to pin a crime on a man these days, he just knows that things he can't see and doesn't know shit about can see him sent down. So he yanks his shirt off, and his jeans, and tries to ignore the fact that One Two is doing the same thing.

He gets in the shower and soaps himself frantically, thanks God and barbers for the invention of the buzzcut, and tries to ignore the fact that One Two is jammed in here with him, stark bollock naked.

Bob's worry is his salvation. If he gets put away no-one's gonna care about what he likes, just how much he can take. And if it gets out that he maybe has an eye for the boys, they'll just assume he wants everything they give him and more. And Bob's maybe a bit perverse but he's not that perverse, so despite the fact that he's basically reliving one of his own dirty dreams, nothing gives him away, if you know what I mean.

One Two grins at him through a face full of shampoo lather, though, and says, 'Close one, eh?'

'Yeah,' Bob says. 'Too bloody close.' And he gets himself hosed off, dried off, dressed and gone before One Two can get out. He runs, in other words, which was the plan, so he doesn't feel guilty about it.

He feels plenty guilty later when he takes a shower he doesn’t need and fobs off washing in favour of running a hand ruefully from his neck all the way down his chest to his aching cock and up again.

He tries to tell himself he doesn't actually want to toss one off in the shower, but it's a lie, it's such a lie. In his head he can still see One Two in the nick, jammed into the shower with him, shampoo dripping off his jawline, and _fuck_ \- his hand goes straight back to his cock and it stays there like it's welded.

He leans back against the wall of the shower and lets the water cascade over his bowed head and hunched shoulders as he fucks into his fist. One Two can never know. He can't. Bob can never, ever fucking tell him this, because it would ruin everything. If he leaves well enough alone, One Two will be his friend, and that's what he wants, that's what he really needs. He doesn't need _this._

His skin is so slick now with water and with his own mess that he can't help but gasp wetly into the damp air, it feels so good. His eyes are closed, remembering, picturing, trying to work out how One Two would look if he were in here, if he were into this, if his eyes had been crinkled with something hotter and darker than laughter from his adrenaline high. He doesn't want to, he wants it to be all... shit, equal, or something, because One Two isn't one of his back-alley pickups, he's not just some convenient thing to fuck, but he can't help it - that mental image of One Two washing his hair and dripping foam and shampoo everywhere makes Bob want to push him to his knees - no, he wants One Two to go by himself, wants to see him drop to his knees, eyes filled with lust, wrapping his lips around the head of Bob’s cock. Wants to see him fisting his own cock and moaning with his mouth full of Bob.

Bob comes hard and fast, swills it away down the plughole and wishes he could send his bad thoughts and his nasty desires the same way. Nothing wrong with fancying boys, oh no. He's over that one. But wanting your mate like that, your straight mate, that's bad. And watching him shower, wanking over it, that's worse.

Bob's a wrong 'un. Always has been. Wrong side of the tracks, bad part of town, bad habits, bad company - he's all the cliches - but he's never felt so fucking criminal in his life as he does right now.

***

One Two introduces Bob to a girl, Jeanette, one night, and Bob knows exactly what this is. This is what One Two thinks is a bit of thanks and a bit of congratulations on their last job not completely going up Shit Creek. Bob pretends he can't see One Two's encouraging grin from over Jeanette's shoulder.

She cards her fingernails down Bob's arm and smiles at him, and old habits, y'know? Some things are too easy, and he drops into a bit of the routine, and she falls for it hook, line, and sinker.

But he can't do it. Well no, he can. _That's_ not his problem and never has been either - but it feels like a fucking lie and he just can't be bothered. Even if he tries - he just sees One Two in his mind's eye.

He gets a phone call and politely excuses himself to take it, gratefully prying her off his side, and it's the Crown lawyer they assigned him a few months ago after he'd been a bit careless and landed himself too close to a security camera while on a job.

He's wanted in court in a month's time - he needs to see the laywer tomorrow.

All he can think of is that it gets him out of having to find another excuse not to go home with Jeanette.

***

The boys take it in their stride, although after weeks of Fred's advice and Fred's thoughts and Fred reminiscing about his time in prison, Bob just wishes he would shut the fuck up and let them play cards. He doesn't want to dwell on it, yeah? He just wants to play poker.

They play a lot of poker, in the Speeler. It's a time-killer, and it's, y'know, practice. For a lot of things, really, but for Bob, mostly for this. For the poker face. Because One Two does fucking ridiculous things like dropping his pants for the sake of a stupid joke, and Bob wants to growl and jump the table and hide him away from everyone else's eyes using his own body, wants to shove him against the wall and…

Poker face. He's not yours, Bob, and it's all a joke, and fuck it, it's not like the boys here have never seen his arse before or are actually interested in it. This is all in your head, you sad bastard.

But God, the things Bob wants to do to that arse.

Mumbles drops his hand of cards and follows One Two out to the back room. Bob follows them with his eyes until Fred nudges him, and then he folds, tosses his hand into the middle and leaves. All of a sudden this place is too hot.

He's having a smoke outside, one foot braced against the brick, in the shadow of the Speeler, when Mumbles appears like a ghost at his side.

'You gonna tell him?' he asks without preamble. That's the thing about Mumbles - always cuts to the chase. He didn't exactly follow Bob out here for some friendly small talk. But Bob doesn't care. He's not interested in having this conversation. Not ever but especially not fucking now.

He flicks his cigarette butt out into the gutter. 'No,' he says.

'Gotta tell him something someday,' Mumbles says. 'Or you gonna keep banging birds you don't give a shit about just cos you don't want him to notice who you look at at parties?'

'Fuck off.'

'Your call.' Mumbles looks Bob in the eye. 'Think about it though, eh?' He turns to walk away, back up the stairs to the boys and the game.

'He'll hate me,' Bob mutters, half-hoping Mumbles is too far away to hear him as he does so. But his friend turns and looks back.

'Give him a chance,' Mumbles says with kindness and not pity, thank fuck. 'He's your mate.'

Bob wishes he could say something brave, like how he wants it to stay that way, and that's why he's not telling One Two. He's not brave though, he's stupid. He's selfish, and a coward and it's safer to want and wait and wank, than it is to speak out. Saying things is dangerous.

***

The stupidest thing One Two's ever said is 'I'd understand anything coming from you. You're my best mate.'

The most dangerous thing Bob's ever said is 'See, I don't want the strippers, One Two. I want you.'


End file.
